by J. A. Jance
One thing I had already learned from my three and a half weeks of treatment was that everybody involved, family members and addicts alike, had long since learned to function by putting on as normal an outward appearance as possible while keeping their real feelings buried far beneath the surface. In chemically dependent families, nobody dares say what they really think or feel for fear the entire house of cards will come tumbling down around their ears.
Living through Round Robins, “touching base exercises” as they called them in the Ironwood Ranch lexicon, is often a scary, treacherous process.
That particular morning it was especially so, and not just for me. I glanced around the room. Naturally, Joey Rothman was nowhere in evidence. Kelly, sullen and pouting, sat with her arms crossed staring moodily at the floor. Just because she wasn’t speaking to me didn’t mean she would have any compunction about letting loose with a full pyroclastic blast in front of the whole group. That unpleasant prospect made me more than a little nervous.
Directly across the open circle from Kelly sat Michelle Owens, still pale, red-eyed, and miserable. On Michelle’s other side sat Guy Owens, tight-lipped and explosive, wound tight as a drum and waiting expectantly. Still searching for Joey, he eagerly scanned each new face every time the door opened and closed. I idly wondered if that little twerp of a Burton Joe and his female counterpart would be tough enough to handle the ensuing donnybrook if Joey Rothman was dumb enough to turn up in Group that morning. There were enough people present that Rothman probably wouldn’t get hurt too badly, but Guy Owens would scare the living shit out of him. Of that, I was certain.
So while part of me looked forward to the coming confrontation, relishing it, another part of me empathized with Michelle Owens and wondered what would happen to her if her father lit into Rothman and beat the crap out of him. I also worried how Michelle would take it if Kelly happened to mention that her quarrel with me was also about Joey Rothman, the father of Michelle’s unborn child. So sitting in that room waiting for things to happen was very much like sitting on a keg of dynamite.
But somewhere along the way, a little of the dynamite was unexpectedly defused. Before the session officially got under way, Nina Davis, Louise Crenshaw’s personal secretary, hurried up to where Michelle and Guy Owens were sitting, said something to them in urgent undertones, and led them from the room. As the door closed behind them, I let out an audible sigh of relief. Unfortunately, Burton Joe heard it. As soon as the Round Robin started, he called on me. First.
“I heard you mention at breakfast that you hadn’t slept well last night, Beau. Is there any specific problem you’d like to discuss with the group?”
Like hell I was going to discuss it with the whole group. “Not really,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible. “I was waiting up to talk with Joey, but he never came in.”
Kelly swung her head around and stared at me in disbelief. “Why don’t you tell them the truth, Daddy?” she blurted passionately. “Why don’t you tell them that you were mad at Joey because he’s a really awesome guy? You caught us kissing and jumped to all kinds of terrible conclusions. You acted like I was a stupid two-year-old or something. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole life.” With that, she burst into tears.
Her frontal attack left me with no line of retreat. Everyone looked at me. Glared is more like it. I felt like I was totally alone, standing naked at center stage under the glare of an immense spotlight with every flaw and defect fully exposed. I waited, hoping a hole would open in the floor and swallow me, but just when I was at my lowest ebb, help came from a totally unexpected quarter.
Scott, sitting on the other side of Kelly, leaned back in his chair far enough to catch my eye behind the back of his sister’s head. He winked at me as if to say “It’s okay, Pop. I’ve seen these kinds of fireworks before. Hang on; it’ll pass.”
For the first time in years, I could feel that ineffable bond of kinship flowing back and forth between my son and me. It lanced across the room like a ray of brilliant sunshine, giving me something to cling to, putting a lump in my throat.
“Is that true, Beau?” Burton Joe asked.
That blinding sense of renewed connection with Scott left me too choked up to answer. I nodded helplessly. Misreading the cause of my emotional turmoil, Burton Joe nodded too, an understanding, encouraging nod. As far as he was concerned, my uncontrolled show of emotion demonstrated a sudden breakthrough in treatment.
“Just go with it,” Burton Joe said solicitously. “Let it flow.”
Other words of reassurance and support came from around the circle. Ed Sample, sitting next to me, gave the top of my thigh a comforting, open-handed whack. I couldn’t explain to any of them what had really happened. Talking about it would have trivialized it somehow, when all I really wanted to do was grab Scott in my arms and crush him against my chest. But that didn’t happen, either.
The outside door opened. Everyone shifted slightly in their seats, disturbed by the sudden intrusion into the privacy of the session. This time, instead of Nina or Louise Crenshaw, Calvin Crenshaw himself stood in the doorway.
“Sorry to disturb you, Burton,” he said slowly, “but I need to speak to Mr. Beaumont.”
Burton Joe nodded. “All right,” he said. “You can go, Beau.”
We were all used to Louise popping in and out, but for Calvin Crenshaw to interrupt a group was unusual to begin with. Beyond that, and despite an apparent effort to maintain control, it was clear to me that something was dreadfully wrong. Calvin Crenshaw’s complexion was generally on the florid side. Now his skin was livid—his cheeks a pasty shade of gray and his full lips white instead of pink.
I got up quickly and followed him from the room. I waited until he had closed the door to the portable before I spoke.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Before the session started, I had been ready to tear into the deputy for putting me off, for not calling me in to talk to him as soon as he arrived at Ironwood Ranch, but the emotional roller-coaster of the past few minutes had left me hollow and drained. I didn’t want to fight anymore, but I did want to know what was going on. Calvin didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be having some difficulty in making his lips work.
“Where’s the deputy?” I asked. “I know he showed up, but I still haven’t seen him.”
“Up there,” Calvin croaked, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the path that detoured around the ranch house and led up to the parking lot. He swallowed then, as if recovering control of his voice. “Where are your car keys, Mr. Beaumont?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Your car keys. Where are they?”
Something about the way he spoke, the timbre of his voice as he asked the question, put my interior warning system on yellow alert. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just tell me.”
“They’re not in my desk,” I said, stalling for time, hoping for a hint of what was really behind the question.
Through the four weeks Calvin Crenshaw had come across as a fairly easygoing guy. He seemed content to linger in the background while Louise hogged center stage. Not everybody would have caught the slight grimace of impatience that flashed across his face in reaction to my answer. I could see in his face that Calvin Crenshaw already knew that the keys to the rented Grand AM weren’t in my desk. Someone had already looked.
“What were you doing in my room?” I demanded.
Calvin turned to walk away, but not before I caught the giveaway blink of his eye that told me I was right. There was something else there as well, a hardened line of resistance that I had never seen before. He started up the path, but I strode after him and caught him by the arm.
“Look, Calvin, I asked you a question.”
“Go talk to the deputy,” he replied. “He’s waiting for you in the parking lot. I hope you have the keys with you.”
Saying that, he shook off my restraining hand and hurried away. For a moment I stood there wa
tching him go, then I did as I was told, heading up to the parking lot with the car keys in my pocket. Unwilling to give Joey Rothman another chance at making a damn fool out of me, I had carried them with me when I left the cabin.
Once I reached the parking lot I saw a lanky man wearing a khaki uniform and a wide-brimmed hat standing next to my rental.
“You Detective Beaumont?” he asked as I approached.
I nodded. No one at Ironwood Ranch had called me Detective since my arrival four weeks before. For reasons of personal privacy, I had played down the police officer part of my life as much as possible. As I came closer I noticed that the leather snap on his holster had been loosened. He held one arm away from his body in a stance that would allow immediate access to the handle of his weapon. His bronze-plated name tag said Deputy M. Hanson. He studied me appraisingly for a moment or two and then relaxed a little.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“Is this your vehicle?”
“Not mine. Rented, yes.”
“Mind opening it up?”
“Not at all, but what seems to be the problem?”
“Let me ask the questions, please, Detective Beaumont. Unlock the door and then step away from the vehicle.”
I did as I was told. As soon as I turned the key in the lock, Hanson pulled a penknife form his pocket and gingerly lifted the latch. When the door swung open, he leaned inside, carefully examining the floor mats of both the front and back seats. When he was finished, Hanson straightened up and stepped away from the car, studying me carefully.
“Did you disturb the vehicle in any way when you found it here in the lot this morning?” he asked.
“I got in it,” I said. “On the driver’s side. The keys had been left in the ignition. I took them out and put them in my pocket.”
“Did you touch anything else?”
“I unlocked the glove box to check the rental agreement. I wanted to see how far the car had been driven. What exactly is going on here?” I asked, exasperated. “I call to report a car prowl. You turn up three hours later and act as though the case has suddenly turned into a major crime and I’m somehow at fault for stealing my own car.”
“It has turned into a major crime, as you call it,” Deputy Hanson said seriously. “It’s my understanding that you believe your roommate, Joseph Rothman, took your vehicle, drove it?”
“Joey. That’s correct. I left the keys in my desk drawer. He must have lifted them from there.”
Hanson nodded. “That could be,” he said. “We’ll have to check all that out later. In the meantime, I’ll have to impound this vehicle. I’ll need you to ride along up to Prescott with me after a bit. We’ll need your fingerprints.”
“Impound my car! Take my prints! What the hell are you talking about? I tell you, I didn’t steal my own damn car!”
Hanson looked at me first with a puzzled frown and then with dawning awareness. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d been told.”
“I haven’t been told a goddamned thing except to get my butt up here and bring my car keys along.”
“Your roommate is dead, Detective Beaumont.”
That stopped me cold. “Dead?” I repeated.
“That’s right. A rancher just up the road found the body hung up on a mesquite tree along the bank of the river about six-fifteen this morning. That’s why I’m so late getting here. It was right on the boundary, so it took a while to figure out if the body was found in Maricopa or Yavapai County. The line runs right through Don Freeman’s ranch. Don’s an old geezer, ninety-one if he’s a day. He got all confused and thought it was on the Maricopa side. Then, when Mrs. Crenshaw called to report one of her residents missing, we started putting two and two together.”
The news staggered me. Joey Rothman dead? A parade of one-word questions, detective questions, zinged through my head like so many bouncing Ping-Pong balls in a lottery bottle: How? When? Who? Where?
“You said they pulled him out of the water. Drowned?”
Deputy Mike Hanson shook his head. “Nope.”
“What then?” I demanded, feeling a clammy sinking in my gut, remembering the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder in the car when I opened the glove box of the Grand AM at four-thirty in the morning, the smell that had told me the Smith and Wesson had been fired sometime within the previous few hours, to say nothing of the two missing rounds.
“You can tell me,” I insisted. “I’m a homicide cop.”
“Not here you’re not,” Hanson replied decisively.
He didn’t add that here in this god-forsaken corner of Nowhere, Arizona, I was just another one of the suspects. Hanson didn’t have to say it, because I already knew it was true.
Desperately my mind swung back and forth as I tried to decide on the best path to follow, given the incriminating circumstances. It seemed as though I’d be better off making full disclosure right away than I would be letting Deputy Hanson find out about the gun later—the recently fired gun with my fingerprints on it and hopefully the killer’s as well. If I told Hanson first, it might look a little less as though I was withholding information.
“Deputy Hanson,” I said quietly, “you should probably know that my departmental issue .38 is locked in the glove box.”
The startled look on Deputy Hanson’s face confirmed my worst suspicions. Joey Rothman hadn’t drowned. Somebody had plugged him. And I knew with dead certainty that the murder weapon had to be my very own Smith and Wesson.
Just then I heard the sound of laughter and approaching voices. Finished with the Round Robins, early morning Group had broken up. Family members from my session and others were on their way to an outlying portable, this one a new addition across the parking lot. The group had to pass down the aisle directly in front of where Deputy Hanson and I were standing.
Several people gave us curious glances as they went by. Kelly walked past without acknowledging my existence. Karen nodded but didn’t stop. Scott walked past but then turned and came back, frowning.
“Dad, is something wrong?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Scott smiled. “Good,” he said. He started away again, but stopped once more. “I just wanted to tell you in there that it’s all right. Kelly’s a spoiled brat. She carries on like that all the time, and Dave and Mom let her get away with it. You know how it works.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
“And I…” Scott paused.
“You what?”
“I just wanted to tell you that I love you,” he said.
The lump returned to my throat. I grabbed Scott then, right there in the parking lot with a puzzled Deputy Hanson looking on, and held him tightly against me, feeling his strong young body next to mine, marveling at how tall my little boy had grown, how well built and capable.
“I needed that, Scotty,” I said at last, when I could talk again. “You’ve no idea how badly I needed that.”
CHAPTER
5
Despite the extraordinary circumstances, Louise Crenshaw sent word through her secretary that I was to return to Group until the sheriff’s department investigators were ready to speak to me. Deputy Hanson reluctantly agreed to let me leave the parking lot only after cautioning me not to mention Joey Rothman’s death to anyone at all until after a decision had been made on an official announcement.
Bearing that in mind, I returned to our portable where Burton Joe was leading the client group through a meandering discussion about denial and its impact on dysfunctional, chemically dependent families. The bottom line revolved around the catch-22 that denying you have the disease of alcoholism is in and of itself a symptom of the disease. Naturally, until you admit you have a problem, you can’t fix the problem. According to Burton Joe, breaking through denial is a major step on the road to recovery.
I’ve heard it before, and I must confess I didn’t pay very close attention during the remainder of the morning. My mind wandered. There was no denying I h
ad a problem all right. Regardless of the fact that the weapon belonged to me, the presence of my fingerprints as the most recent prints on a possible murder weapon clearly posed a very touchy problem, one that had nothing to do with alcoholism or liver disease, although I’d say that in terms of potential for long-term damage it rivals either one.
I could feel myself being sucked inevitably into the vortex of circumstances surrounding Joey Rothman’s death. If any homicide cop worth his salt started asking questions, it wouldn’t take much effort to discover that J. P. Beaumont had both motive and opportunity. I took small comfort from the fact that all the circumstantial evidence pointing at me also pointed at Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens. (In the course of the long night and longer morning, his official title and rank had surfaced in my memory.) Whatever fatherly motive I might have had, Owens had more. In spades. Kelly Beaumont wasn’t pregnant. Michelle Owens was.
Blocking out Burton Joe’s psycho-babble, I wondered about the official time of death. Lacking that critical piece of information, I couldn’t assess exactly how much trouble I was in. If the coroner happened to declare that the murder occurred while Guy Owens and I were together in the cabin, then life would be good. Each of us could provide the other with an airtight alibi.
But if Joey Rothman died later than that, I thought uneasily, if the autopsy indicated that the crime occurred sometime after Guy Owens left my cabin and before I went to see Lucy Washington and to report the problem with my car, that would be a white horse of a different color.
Around eleven o’clock, Nina Davis came to the door of the portable and crooked a summoning finger in my direction. Annoyed at the barrage of unexplained interruptions, Burton Joe nonetheless nodded that I could go. I followed Nina out the door, wondering why Louise had once more sent her secretary instead of coming herself. This was exactly the kind of one-woman show Louise did so well, playing the part of a grande dame puppet master, jerking the strings of anyone dumb enough to let her.
But even outside, Louise Crenshaw was no where in sight. Instead, waiting on the path was an attractive Mexican-American woman in her mid-thirties. Nina Davis introduced her as Yavapai County Sheriff’s Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales.